Tuesday, July 08, 2014

Surrealism- Round Deux

Day 2-

I am told that our first full day in Recife will be spent on the beach with some well deserved R&R. This sounds like a pretty good plan considering that by this point most of us are running on empty. The World Cup is a marathon of epic proportions.

A van has been chartered to take us to the best beach in Recife, and one that doesn't have a record number of shark attacks. Sharks patrol these waters, sharks patrol these waters, don't let your fingers dangle in the water!

The ride is long but the bus is comfortable. We have met some others at a nearby hostel and they have chosen to join us. So our original group of 6 (Myself, Brett, German, Kieran, Clint, Ashley) has grown to include my friend from Chicago John Wanda, Matt, Andy, Evan, Bryce, and Leo. Our Oscar Meyer van rolls south to the beach.

I am amazed at the skyline of Recife.
It is nearly impossible to detail the length of her skyline, but it makes Chicago look like Grand Junction. It runs for miles and miles. Unfortunately for us this day, it is overcast and there is a cool mist of rain. It takes us about an hour of driving to reach our destination but it is as described, perfect for a tourist's day at the beach. There are shops filled with hand-made artisan gifts, t-shirts, hammocks and the sorts of knick-knacks that clutter homes around the world with unspoken messages of "someone I know was at this place, but I was not". The beach is famous for it's crystal clear waters and vibrant reef but today it is stormy, and the sea is churning. Not a good day for snorkeling. But alas, there are World Cup games on every TV and plenty to eat and drink. So that's what we do- we sit and eat and drink. Maybe that is why its called the Cup, we seem to fill ours everyday.

***

﻿

One of the difficulties of traveling for the World Cup is planning things to do around the games. They are right in the middle of the day so you need to be sure there is a television somewhere near wherever your plan has taken you. Today, like most, there is an abundance of TV's showing games. At half time and during the interval I walk around and window shop. This of course is something else that happens quite a bit, window shopping. It would be great to be able to purchase some little trinket in every place or a gift for friends or family. But the rule is simple- you buy it, you have to carry it. With limited funds and no desire to lug around an ever increasingly heavy bag, I walk through the misty veiled, blue streets of Porto Galinhas.

***

﻿

As the day's games come to an end in yet another beautiful place, we begin to make our way back to our chariot. We stuff the 12, now soggy, bodies back in and make our way towards home. But our driver appears to be lost. We navigate the winding, high-walled streets away from the beach slowly. We stop, awkwardly turn around and repeat. We drive in circles as the sun begins to set, with faith that our driver is better than he, at this moment, appears.

My confidence in our driver had been waning since much earlier in the day. During our approach to the beach our bus was beginning to show signs of trouble. It seemed as though we would lose power, coast a bit, the driver would hit the ignition and we would roar forward once again. I had no idea how far we had traveled nor how much farther we had to go. The scene from the windows was typical of what we saw everywhere, favelas- the slums. We continued to lurch forward. Mile after mile passed as our guide talked about how we might better understand the mentality of the average Brazilian. They make most of their decisions on emotion rather than reason, he told us. Foresight is short, making plans past the coming weekend is seldom done and as a result saving money is not common.

Johnny, having made Brazil his second home, tells us that homes in the favelas are passed on from parents to children. Large, multi-generational families live in small 4-wall houses that are built upwards as the years pass. When a family has the means to build, they build what they can. Sometimes just one wall a year. Some are made of brick and mortar while others are obviously nothing more than clay or dirt patted firm and dried with scraps of anything they can find for roofing or siding. It is not uncommon to see blue tarps, sheet metal siding or what appears to be sheets of fiberglass. They are stacked one upon another, side by side up the hills for as far as the eye can see. I can only imagine that life in these favelas is nasty, brutish and short. Breaking down on the side of the road here would likely be a harrowing experience.

***

﻿

We were told by our guide that the driver would take the bus to a mechanic while we toured the town to be sure that whatever was causing the van to malfunction would be addressed. When we returned to the van our driver was in his seat, feet up on the dashboard, smoking a cigarette. When we find our way back to the highway the sun has set and traffic has begun to crawl. I figure this is an ideal time to lean back, close my eyes and take a nap. My previous evening with cachaca has left me a bit hung-over. Turns out cachaca is a bitter mistress. I awake to the sounds of my crew clamoring with the sliding side door. We have officially broken down, in the far left lane. Traffic is exceptionally heavy and were are being passed on both sides by cars, busses, trucks and motorcycles. Horns are honking at us as though WE have created the crawling traffic jam. As German begins to make his exit from the van he is nearly hit by a passing bus. There seems to be very little room for error here. Our driver has exited and he has the hood open. He is obviously confused and without an explanation as to the cause of our breakdown. We are able to get bodies behind the van and begin to push it across the lanes as the lines of traffic move to the shoulders to pass us. Courtesy is of no use here. We make it to the shoulder and our driver is on his phone. Our guide assures us that there is another, more reliable van en route as we speak, and not to worry, it is very close. I look to up the road in each direction. Nothing but headlights on the left and brake lights on the right. There is no way that van is getting to us any time soon.

***

﻿

Bryce needs to be at a shopping mall near the city center by 8pm to pick up his tickets for tomorrow's game, one of which has Johnny's name on it. Normally this would not have been a problem, but this situation is not normal. Johnny, Bryce and I begin walking towards the oncoming traffic with the hair brained idea that we may find an available taxi amidst the river of vehicles approaching us. We would probably have had a better chance finding a leprechaun sitting atop a pot of gold. Our diver, with a set of jumper cables in his hands above his head, has successfully hailed a good Samaritan. The vehicles are linked together and our van roars back to life. We all climb aboard and begin driving along the shoulder of the road at a pace aimed at making up lost time. Yet, with the shoulder being no less treacherous than your average Rally Car track, the whole situation is insane. Our guide assures us that we will make it to the airport in time to take a bus which should have us arrive at the mall in time to do what needs to be done. The mall that we need to find is actually on the way back to our house, but the driver needs to stop at the airport to pick up his cousin at 7 so we will go there first. I shake my head in disbelief.

***

﻿

When we arrive at the airport Bryce, Johnny, myself and Leo jump out. I grab a key to the house from Matt, quickly create a plan to meet up near our house at a later time and we bolt for the taxi stand. As we enter the terminal we are greeted once again with the prospect of having to wait in line for a taxi with the evening's lemmings. It just can't be easy can it? As we are waiting, we decide we will walk to the far end of the sidewalk and try that approach once again when we, as expected, are approached by someone looking to give us an alternate go at getting a taxi. Operation Queue Jumper seems to be working. She takes us inside and just like the last time hands us off to a man that tells us to follow him. He leads us a little further down the terminal, through the doors outside, and like a strutting rooster, proudly walks us right to a line of people waiting for taxis. Thanks dude. We decide our best bet is to make our way to the streets outside the airport when we run into our guide and the driver looking for his cousin near baggage claim. Seems the guys flight has been delayed and they are more than happy to take us to the mall, since it's on the way. Traffic is a nightmare, but we make it to the mall with minutes to spare. Tickets are now in all of the hands that they need to be in for tomorrow's game. Luckily for us though, the van left without us.

This is of no consequence however because we have created a fool proof plan to meet the rest of the clan at a spot near both our house, and Bryce & Leo's hostel. We catch a cab to the hostel which to this point in Recife, is the only place we have been able to find reliable Wi-Fi. As we are making our way to the rendezvous point there is an explosive sound somewhere out in the abyss and the lights go out, everywhere. Unlike in the US when there is a blackout, this is not momentarily. We walk out into the street and there is nothing in the way of electrical light as far as the eye can see. So we walk down the dark streets of Recife making our way to the predetermined meeting point. When we arrive, there is no one in our group to be found so we make our way back up into the old part of town. From a small doorway beyond the square in front of the church, I hear music. It is faint, but I know that sound and my heart skips a beat. We make our way to the source, stick our heads in and one of the most beautiful things I've seen in days appears in the darkness.

***

﻿

It is a small middle eastern restaurant lit only by candles. There is a small band of traveling musicians who have opted to fill the time in darkness with music. A classical guitar, a djembe drum, a tambourine and shakers. It is soft, it is slow, and it is beautiful. We are greeted by a young woman who tells us we can sit, eat and drink. We grab a table beside the music and for the first time in hours we are comfortable, content and entertained. I spend the rest of the evening with an old friend, and a couple new ones. We sit in the candle lit room drinking beer, reliving the day and laughing, because it's over.

My Blog List

About Me

I like Mark Twain, Dave Barry, Bill Bryson, and Henry Rollins. Sleep deprivation and travel are the simple syrup of the soul. This blog was started as a way of playing with words like the men above play with words, with the world as it's muse.